


Comeback

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: F1slash Secret Santa 2004, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:39:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eddie challenges Mika's motivation over his proposed 2005 comeback.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comeback

**Author's Note:**

> For Lauren

They would meet every other Tuesday at noon, unless prior commitments laid claim. It was easy enough to arrange these meetings in a place the size of Monte Carlo. It was a city of idle distraction, after all: a place where a man could lose himself in admiration of a car, a yacht, a building, a woman…

Mika frowned at the thought. A woman was a complication; a woman, even if she was only a friend, was seen by the media as evidence that he was untrue to his wife.

He had been unfaithful to Erja many times, but never untrue. His belief in her, his loyalty to their marriage – these were unshakeable. Mika knew that she forgave him many things, from his vacillatory judgement to his stubborn refusal to put the cap back on the toothpaste. She'd even countenanced his awkward, foolhardy relationship with Michael because she knew that she could not share that part of his life.

But what now, when that part of his life was over, and the future seemed no longer golden, but tarnished?

Mika looked both ways as he crossed the street. It was purely instinctive, the way that anybody might check for traffic as they cross a thoroughfare, but Mika still found himself measuring, through the soles of his shoes, the slight gradient of the asphalt, the springy quality of the new surfacing. This part of the circuit had always been slow- a slip-slide shuffle out of the Tunnel and into the lazy chicanes. So many accidents had occurred here over the past few years: cars going straight on, their tail fins stuck up like exclamation marks; cars hurtling backwards; cars sideways, mounted one atop the other.

Mika felt the road through the soles of his shoes and knew still which gear he'd select, which path he'd take on the racing line to negotiate safely past these obstacles to gain the advantage.

He could leave the past behind, but it was not yet finished with him.

The marina spread out to his left, a playground of yachts great and small: old money and nouveaux riches. It was a conceit that never ceased to amuse him; the wealthy so inured to life on land that they sought excitement and escape on the sea, only to get as far off shore as the wooden jetties and gangplanks of the marina.

Mika kept his head down as he walked out onto the jetty. He was still recognised, even here in the land of perpetual fame and glory-seekers. Even though his star had waned, he was still a somebody. He sometimes thought that he was the kind of somebody a nobody became after they'd spent a few weeks on a reality television show; the kind of somebody-nobody that Erja had worked with when she hosted the Finnish version of _Joe Millionaire_. Such people went on to open supermarkets or to switch on Christmas lights, and they seemed well content with such an existence.

Mika was not.

It was not the fame that he craved, the way those poor entities did; he had no desire to be feted as an ex-World Champion. If you were ex-something, then it meant that you'd lost out to somebody else. You weren't even a nobody, for they had nothing to lose in the first place.

All an ex-somebody had to lose was his dignity: a little more each year, each month, week, day. A bleeding away of time; regretted and wasted.

It was not meant to be like this. When he'd retired, it had been for all the right reasons. He'd kept his hand in – discreetly, of course: a couple of 'phone calls to Kimi, dispensing wise advice; and a few complaints to Finnish television when their commentators were in error, which resulted in a brief stint behind the microphone himself. But both of these actions were born from falsity: Kimi had no need of his advice, and blatantly disregarded it; and when he had stood in the commentary box and wielded the microphone, he had understood why so very few ex-drivers could bear to do this job. The detachment he'd felt was so extreme that it took him completely unawares, and he'd been unable to speak above monosyllables for the entire race.

He had not been asked to come back.

And so the dissatisfaction grew.

When the F1 circus blew into town for the Monaco Grand Prix, Mika had gone to pay his respects; to discuss the fine points of technical issues that were now yesterday's news, superseded and thrown away. He had the suspicion that conversation was modified whenever he approached. Even Michael, who had no appreciation of the past, began to speak to him of 'the good old days'.

Outcast amongst his own, Mika had found himself on a yacht doing an interview with two other ex-drivers, Johnny Herbert and Eddie Irvine. Mika had done his bit as Mysterious Finn of Few Words, as per his habitual portrayal by the British press, and with little else to do he had instead watched Johnny and Eddie.

The former, he observed, was a pallid ghost of himself. Johnny had always been a great sport, a try-er rather than a doer. Occasionally, he had been rewarded. Most of the time he'd been overlooked. He was overlooked then, cast into the shade not by a double World Champion, but by an Irishman who always did, or did not, and who never, ever, just tried.

Mika had never been able to decide his feelings for Eddie. And, it seemed, Eddie had never fully realised – or had wanted to realise – his feelings for Mika.

At the end of the interview, Eddie had casually asked Mika what he was doing for the race.

"Going home," Mika had replied.

"Watching it on the television?" Eddie had asked, his voice lilting more than necessary for the Irish brogue to tease.

"On RTL," Mika said. "You can be sure of a non-biased opinion with them."

Eddie had snorted with laughter. "If it's partisanship that you're after, come with me and watch the bloody thing from the _Anaconda_. And then, when Michael wins it yet again, you can puke overboard and blame it on seasickness rather than -"

He'd come to a halt there, and turned away abruptly to stare at the flags waved in the grandstands and the pennants and banners that fluttered from hotel terraces and household balconies like so many pieces of drying laundry.

"Rather than what?" Mika had asked into the taut silence, but gently, as befits an old acquaintance stumbling upon some long-held secret.

Eddie had looked back at him, that charming, devil-may-care smile now fixed to his face; but in his eyes Mika saw that the devil did care, and very much.

"Rather than regret," Eddie said. "And maybe rather than jealousy. But then, what do I have to be jealous about? Maybe that can be your excuse, instead."

Mika had gone with him back to the _Anaconda_. The yacht was full of beautiful women and handsome, wealthy men. Eddie could not bear to be surrounded by ugliness, it seemed. He and Mika drank something long and cool that tasted vaguely of bitters. A slice of lime decorated it: tarter, more explosive on the tongue than lemon. It drowned out the sense of injustice that came down upon Mika as they watched the start of the race.

Before ten laps had passed, Eddie had drained his glass and stood up. "C'mon," he said to Mika, "before this drives me to drink."

Mika had laughed: empty and hollow. It was always a trial, watching a Grand Prix at home with Erja beside him. With another ex-driver keeping him company, it was unbearable.

"Where are you going, Eddie?" called out a girl in a hot-pink bikini.

"To catch up on the good old days," he'd shouted back.

Mika had winced, but followed him out of the harsh Mediterranean sunlight and down into the chill darkness of the yacht's cabin.

In the master suite, Eddie had turned on the television with a wry grimace. They sat on the bed and watched the events of a few metres away on a screen better sized for sit-coms. A terrifying numbness had gripped them both, and so it had seemed quite natural for them to turn to one another, to seek solace, or at least forgiveness, in each other.

And that was how it had started. They were discreet, of course: Erja had disapproved of Michael, and Mika wasn't certain that she would approve of Eddie, either.

***

Eddie had less to lose on the face of it, and yet it was he who insisted on discretion before passion. The very reversal of their stereotypes was exciting to Mika. Now he was the rash, impulsive one, and Eddie was careful and controlled. Their relationship, already an inversion, was inverted again. When Mika told this to Eddie, he'd smiled as if at some private joke and said, "And in the end, we're the right side up. God be praised, eh?"

At first they came together in a kind of ferocity. Their matings were brief, comical: a tussle for dominance and then sharp, stabbing thrusts, snarled words of lust, and pinioned wrists, arms, thighs, ankles. It never occurred to them that they had learned how to fuck from the same teacher.

In time they unlearned it, and came to know one another instead, with all the gamut of likes and preferences and ticklish fears.

Eddie had always heard that Mika was a different person off-track – a bit of a party-animal, a joker, a karaoke-singer. He'd never seen that side of Mika before, and he found that it complemented his own excesses.

And Mika discovered that, for all his wild energy and pretended childishness, Eddie was one of the sharpest, most intelligent men he'd met. No fool with money, Eddie was yet a fool for love. It was a strange, but perfect, combination.

***

Noon sounded across the city. Mika felt his mobile vibrate as the alarm went off. It was somehow louder than any of the bells that chimed; it could not be muffled by the roar of traffic and the cry of the seabirds. The trembling against his thigh did not arouse him, but it reminded him of why he'd come, why he always came back, and that knowledge in itself was erotic.

There was nobody aboard the _Anaconda_. Only as he felt his way below did Mika know that Eddie was there, waiting. The door to the master suite was ajar, and the muted sound of the television drifted out into the corridor. Mika recognised from the commentary that it was a replay of Malaysia 1999. Eddie always had to fuck with an episode of the past to drown out their sighs.

Mika pushed open the door and slid inside. Eddie lay on the bed, already naked, his gaze fastened to the screen. "How does he do it?" he wondered aloud.

Mika stared at his body and then looked at the television. Michael's Ferrari cornered effortlessly, to the delight of the crowd.

"If I knew, then I would do it, too." Mika sat down beside Eddie and stroked his back, fitting his hand to the curve of his buttocks and then up the line of his spine.

Eddie half-turned his head. "That reminds me. I heard a little rumour these few days past. Something about you."

Mika's hand stilled. "About me?"

"Yep. You. And BAR, next season." Eddie rolled over to look at him properly, his expression devoid of challenge.

Mika moved his hand away, and did not put it back. "I was going to tell you."

"You don't need to, you know. It's not necessary." Eddie paused for a heartbeat. "Have you told Erja?"

Mika looked away; back at the television screen; back at Michael. "No."

There was silence between them. The commentary blared. Eddie reached for the remote control and reduced the volume, until the words were less than whispers and only the shouts of excitement were clear.

"You know, resurrection is good for some people," he said. "Lazarus, for example. And Jesus. But then, these guys were dead in the first place, and them coming back was kind of the point of them dying. The problem with comebacks of the living is that, most of the time, nobody can remember what the fuck it was that you were doing the first time around."

Mika tried to laugh. "I only retired at the end of 2001. Two and a half seasons ago. That's not so long."

Eddie gave him a sombre look. "It is, though. That's a lifetime." He nudged closer to Mika. "What are you trying to prove?"

Mika took his time in replying; and when he did answer, it surprised him as much as it did Eddie. "I don't belong here. You – you have your investments, your yacht, your friends. But I have nothing. Not even my family; for this… longing to be back in racing is like a sickness, turning me from them."

He faced Eddie as he continued: "I know that I won by default in '99. That I won only because Ferrari could not bear someone who was not Michael to win in his stead. You should have won that year, not me."

Eddie sat up and put a hand on Mika's arm, giving him a little shake. "Politics are politics; we'll never change them. You won, Mika. The manner in which you won does not lessen your victory."

"It does." Mika moved away and put his back to the television and the glory-red of the Ferrari on the screen. "What is a comeback if not an excuse to triumph again, to defeat an old enemy?"

"I don't know any driver who's made a successful comeback," Eddie argued. "In fact, they've all been crap, little better than bloody failures."

"What about Prost?"

"What about him! That whole season was stage-managed so that he could win. The Williams was practically unbeatable. The only way you'd get a comeback like Prost's is if you signed for Ferrari and had Michael assassinated along the way."

"A nice thought," Mika murmured.

Eddie sighed. "Ah, fuck it. Listen, Mika: comebacks are for the sad and desperate -"

"I am both of those things."

"They have no dignity," Eddie persisted. "And you still have that."

Mika shifted on the bed and looked down at him. "What about Jacques? He is your friend. You cannot tell me that he has no dignity."

Eddie grimaced. "Jacques is different. He never listens to anything I say – that anybody says. It doesn't matter how many comebacks he makes, how many failures; two things keep him going. One is the knowledge that he struggled for years with BAR, only to be dumped just as the results began to show. And the second is the knowledge of his father, who died a genius without needing a championship to prove his self-worth."

Eddie ventured to touch Mika's arm again. "If you think about, both are pretty heavy burdens for a man to carry."

Mika nodded. "We all want to redress the balance."

"Isn't that why you're here?"

"One of the reasons."

They smiled at each other, complicit in their union. Mika unbuttoned his shirt. Eddie reached up to kiss him, and then pulled him down onto the bed. The remote control fell onto the floor and was forgotten.

***

Later, Eddie asked, "So, will you do it? Make your comeback?"

Mika hugged into the warmth of Eddie's body and thought about the question for a moment. "Maybe. I don't know. Would you?"

Eddie stared at the television screen. The video had ended, and all that he could see was the snow of static, of blank tape as yet unrecorded.

"If I was guaranteed a fight. I wouldn't necessarily want to win, although that'd be nice." He concentrated on the snow, the black and white blobs wriggling in flurries across the screen. "That's the problem with F1 these days. No fight. Everyone just lies down and lets Michael fuck them up the arse."

Mika made a small sound of amusement. "Just like we did."

"No." Eddie turned to face him. "We fought him. He had to beat us, break us, before we let him touch us. He had to prove that he was worthy of our defeat. This lot," and he waved a dismissive hand in the air, "they're already used to thinking of him as a legend, someone untouchable. You don't challenge a legend."

Mika smiled.

"I'm serious," Eddie said. "If you're going to do this, Mika, then make sure you're doing it for the right reason. Not for money or fame or even as a prop because your family life has gone to the dogs – Do it because you were a winner, once. Do it because you know you're the only guy out there that Michael truly fears."

Mika sat up and pushed aside the duvet. "He never feared me."

"Yes, he did. He was afraid of you because he could never read you. Unlike me." Eddie grinned for a moment. "I was a bit too open, and far too easy for him to understand."

Mika began to dress, unhurried and economical. "I will need to discuss it with Erja before I decide."

"Yeah. Sure." Eddie's tone suggested that he had already decided.

"And I will let you know, too," Mika added. He brushed flat his hair with his fingers. "In fact, you will be the first to know."

Eddie groped for the remote control and lifted it from the carpet. "Of course," he said. "But then, I think I already know."

He aimed the remote at the television and hit the 'off' button. The screen went dark, preserving just for the briefest of seconds the last image played upon its surface: the snowstorm of static.

Mika was almost out of the door when Eddie called out:

"Mika?"

He paused; turned around. "Yes?"

Eddie smiled. "Come back soon."


End file.
